


Carnalia

by LinneaLund



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-28 17:33:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3863362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinneaLund/pseuds/LinneaLund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An modern AU where Murphy, Clarke, Bellamy and Finn are ex-juvenile delinquents, struggling to get their lives together after being released. Things get... complicated. "The first time it happens, it’s an accident. (Or at least that’s what John Murphy tells himself afterward.)  The four of them are drunk and Clarke and Finn end up having to carry Bellamy up to the rat-trap apartment they call home.  It’s not that much of a stretch when Clarke turns and calls down the hallway to Murphy to come help her open the door..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carnalia

**Carnalia**

The first time it happens, it’s an accident. (Or at least that’s what John Murphy tells himself afterward.) The four of them are drunk and Clarke and Finn end up having to carry Bellamy up to the rat-trap apartment they call home. It’s not that much of a stretch when Clarke turns and calls down the hallway to Murphy to come help her open the door.

He frowns, years of grifting warn him there’s _more_ to what Clarke’s saying. But he’s already drunk, and Clarke’s waiting in the doorway, one arm under Bellamy’s shoulder, the other against her hip, that knowing smirk pulling up the corner of her very fuckable mouth. He’s there anyhow (Murphy tells himself). And once inside, there’s no reason _not_ to stay for another drink.

“I’ve gotta catch the bus home,” he says lamely.

“Busses run for hours yet,” Finn argues.

“But I should-”

“Be sociable,” Clarke finishes for him. She puts a hand against Murphy’s chest and shoves him down onto the bed.

“But-”

“Stay and visit,” Bellamy mumbles from where he lays, face down on the mattress. “You never visit the city anymore.”

Murphy frowns. “Guys, listen. I appreciate the offer but-“

“C’mon, Murphy,” Finn interrupts, “apartment’s big enough for all of us. Better than juvie ever was.”

There’s no arguing about that, of course. They’re _all_ delinquents, and no matter how many months have passed since their release, their history binds them together. Murphy’s surprised by how good it feels to be here again.

“Yeah, I suppose a few minutes won’t hurt.”

“No they won’t,” Clarke laughs. “And no cutting and running on us.”

“Not like last time,” Bellamy mumbles. “Remember that armored truck we took out on Spadina?”

“ _Tried_ to take it,” Murphy says with a snort. “I seem to remember I didn’t get away.”

And suddenly they’re all laughing and talking, and Bellamy’s shirt is half off (because he’s completely and totally gone by this point) and suddenly Clarke’s there, sandwiched between Bellamy and Finn on the bed, hands and limbs tangling together. Murphy cannot stop staring, cannot will his eyes away from her breasts. (No wonder half the guys and girls from juvie were in love with her.) Murphy turns in shock as Clarke slides her hand up his chest, her fingers trailing up to the curve of his neck, pulling him nearer.

“I’m glad you stayed,” she whispers. “I _want_ you here.”

And then, of course, there’s no way Murphy can say no.

: : : : : : : : : :

In the morning, Bellamy and Finn joke around like it’s happened before. Which, Murphy realizes now, it likely has. Clarke’s been living with the two ex-delinquents since they were released six months ago. That they have their own bedrooms doesn’t mean a thing to her. She claims there are reasons to the arrangement and she grins when Murphy asks her to explain.

“Bellamy snores,”Clarke says. “And Finn’s feet are cold. I come and go as I want.”

She never tells him what _he does_ that would keep her from joining him long-term, and Murphy never asks. Bellamy’s here and so’s Finn (and now so is Murphy) and that’s worth more than any weight of guilt on Murphy’s chest. Besides, Murphy’s known he was a fuck-up forever. If Clarke’s not worried about it, who’s he to judge?

“Why don’t you stay in the city a while longer?” Finn suggest. “See the old crew.”

“Everyone’s been asking about you,” Clarke adds. “Talking about how Jaha’s got you to go clean.”

“I don’t know…” Murphy mutters. He’s uneasy with the way everyone is watching him. “I should get back. Gotta start pounding the pavement again. Looking for another job.”

“City’s where the jobs are,” Finn says.

Clarke nods. “We could help, if you wanted.”

“But where would I stay?”

“Here’ of course,” she laughs.

Bellamy – looking surprisingly spry for someone who drank himself almost to blackout – grins at Clarke’s suggestion. “We could make the storage room into a bedroom. I have a sleeping bag and there’s a cot downstairs in the boiler room we could steal.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re _not_ a bother,” Clarke says, and winks. “Besides, I like having you here.”

And _that,_ of course, decides it.

: : : : : : : : : :

The second time it happens, Murphy’s the one they’re dragging home. His father has been dead and buried seven years, but the date still looms, making the dismal spring sky dark and bare, Dad’s voice alive in his mind once more. Hours after he stumbles into the bar, the barkeep calls Clarke, and then they’re all there, guiding him away.

“My God,” he sobs in the cab ride home. “Jus’ can’t believe he’s gone... I think of him every fucking day.”

Clarke holds his face against her neck, her hand petting his hair. Murphy’s mind is a slurry of emotions and reactions: memories of his father, bigger than the sky he once held aloft, the years of fucking-up and trying to pull himself out of a hole the city’s juvenile detention system is dedicated to digging deeper, and everything else in Murphy’s life that both is and _isn’t_ defined, like living here with the ghosts of two of Clarke’s three other relationships. It’s a relief that Lexa hasn’t joined them, Murphy thinks, but she’s eighteen and back in jail – not a juvenile any longer. (He wonders if that’ll change when she’s released next summer.)

It’s not until he’s stumbling into his storage-room-bedroom in the apartment they share that he realizes that Finn and Bellamy are carrying _him_ this time. He takes a sobbing breath, his arms tightening over both their necks.

“I just... I wish I’d told my dad how I felt,” Murphy chokes. “He was so angry when the police took me away. And then he died- he died before- before-”

And then his words are gone, sobs gagging him.

“It’s okay, baby,” Clarke answers, her voice gentle and soft. “He knew you loved him.”

She has her hands on his chest, urging him forward, heading him toward the bed, and somehow that notion – that Clarke, Finn and Bellamy are here for _him_ tonight – has his emotions spilling over.

“Love you all so much,” he cries. “So much.”

Bellamy nods. And that would be the end of it – _could have been the end of it_ – but then Finn leans in and kisses Murphy.

Clarke’s smile changes.

_I was drunk,_ he tells himself later. _And she was watching._

But he knows the only person who believes those lies died the moment Clarke Griffin stepped into the gravel-covered exercise yard of the Mount Weather Home for Juvenile Delinquents that long ago spring, smelling of alcohol and cigarettes.

: : : : : : : : : :

The third time, Murphy knows it’s going to happen before it even begins.

It’s been six months since he moved into the apartment and they’re on holiday together – their latest hoist a success. The house they’ve rented is on the beach, the sound of the surf rushing endlessly in the background. Murphy isn’t sure what tips him off at first: whether it’s the way Bellamy’s doing shots one after the other that night (as if readying himself for the inevitable fall from grace) or that Clarke keeps laughing and touching Murphy’s arm as they eat dinner, or the fact that Finn has lit candles, of all things, leaving the room in a dancing twilight.

Whatever it is, by the time the stars come out in the sky, he simply _knows_. Finn is laying across the couch in the living room, one arm hanging loosely down to the floor, the other behind his head, a foot hooked over the back, the television buzzing in the background. Clarke’s smiling and laughing and dancing through the kitchen to some music that only she can hear. The flames from the tea-lights that cover the counters dance in her wake – leaning in to follow her as everything alive does. She flits over to Bellamy for a moment, stealing the shot glass from his fingers and pounding it back without delay.

“Body shots,” she coughs, a second afterward, wiping away a dribble of whiskey with the side of her thumb. “The night we went down to that bar in Little Italy. You remember?”

Bellamy grins and slides a hand around her waist, but Clarke’s faster. She’s twirling again, moving over to Murphy instead, her mouth brushing up against his, letting him taste the burn of alcohol lingering on her lips. He’s been waiting at the end of the counter, watching the two of them from afar. He’s drunk tonight... but not _that_ drunk. Not enough to pretend. (He finds, to his surprise, he doesn’t want to.)

_This interests him._

“Body shots, hmmm?” Murphy says as she pulls away. “You’ll have to tell me about your wild youth sometime, Clarke.”

She giggles. (They _all_ know about her past.)

Bellamy chuckles and slides down the counter a single step. Not _too close_ , Murphy notices; that wouldn’t be Bellamy. He’s standing near enough now that he could touch her if he wanted, but far enough he’s not intruding. For a moment, a saying Bellamy often uses pops to Murphy’s mind: _Possession is nine tenths of the law._ Usually that’s an excuse for lifting things. Tonight it seems something else.

It strikes Murphy as he _watches_ Bellamy watching _them_ , that _this_ is why Bellamy has never left Clarke. That being here gives him the tether he needs to stay. A shackle to something that he can still taste, years after it changed form and flew away. He almost puts the thoughts in words, but Clarke’s voice interrupts him.

“Hardly wild,” Clarke scoffs. She turns to Bellamy, reaching out a hand and tugging him nearer. “That was the weekend after our release, wasn’t it?”

“Think so,” Bellamy says.

“Lincoln and Octavia were there too,” she muses. “We were all so young and stupid.”

Bellamy’s face tightens at the mention of his sister – she’s been in lock-up for months now – but he hides it just as fast.

“Think so,” he murmurs, following her into the snare she’s laid. “Can’t remember exactly.”

“Oh, but I do,” she giggles.

Clarke loops an arm around both of the men’s waists, leading both Bellamy and Murphy toward the couch. The room is even darker than the kitchen, the tea-lights spread further between. Sometime in the last minutes, Finn has switched the music onto some pulsing dance-club beat. (Another clue, if Murphy was still looking for them.) Clarke’s hips bounce between Bellamy and Murphy as she dances them... twirls them... drags them forward... Her body entangling them one step at a time until the three of them tumble onto the couch in a heap. Finn laughs, shifting up and sliding in so that they’re all pressed together, one after the other, too close (as if they didn’t know the feeling too well).

“D’you remember that night we danced down at the Ark?” Clarke giggles, her hands sliding up Murphy’s chest and into his hair. “The night you got busted for Charlotte?”

Murphy’s hands tighten against her hips, dragging Clarke onto his lap and forcing her to feel how hard he is... _how much he wants her._

“Like I’d ever forget _that_ ,” Murphy growls, dropping his mouth to her shoulder and biting. The Ark was a shithole bar, but he loves the memories. Clarke squeals with laughter, writhing and twisting until she’s fallen half off of him, laying across Bellamy, her head in the crook of Finn’s arm.

“I was so fucking stoned that night,” she says happily. “I actually thought you _had_ shivved Wells.”

Murphy snorts. (He would have done it, too. Wells had it coming.) “You and the pigs, too,” he says. “Good thing Charlotte fessed up.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Finn laughs, leaning down and dropping a sloppy sideways kiss onto Clarke’s mouth. “So tell me, Clarke. When _aren’t_ you stoned?”

“Bastard!”

She punches his arm lightly, and Finn swats her fingers away, the two of them falling into light-hearted scuffling. Murphy smiles as he watches them. He doesn’t know _how_ Collins does it, but if anyof them have learned to take Clarke as she is, it’s Finn. He doesn’t ask and he doesn’t push, and when Clarke runs, it’s always back to him. Murphy sighs and as he turns his face away, he catches Bellamy watching them too. There’s a new expression in his eyes: not jealousy, but pain-filled avarice.

Bellamy has her as much as Finn does, _but, as always, he wants more._

It’s too open. Too raw (somehow more embarrassing than the sex which will, Murphy is certain, soon follow.) Instead, Murphy turns back to watch Finn and Clarke. Clarke’s squirming and laughing as Finn finally falls to tickling her, the curve of her ass rocking against Murphy’s crotch. She’s got to be doing the same to Bellamy (or maybe she’s using her hand – in the shadows, he can’t quite see), because Murphy hears Bellamy let out a low moan, his hands tightening around Clarke’s waist, holding her steady. Seeing the action, Murphy feels things in the too-warm room begin to shift. Outside, the surf is pounding, the sound of the ocean mixing with Clarke’s giggles and Finn’s voice. They’re tipping forward now. All of them in motion.

“God,” Clarke sighs, “the sound of the ocean is amazing.” She rolls her shoulders, tipping her head back against Finn’s shoulder and smiling up into his face.

“Reminds you of something in particular?” Finn teases, and Bellamy shoots him a sharp look (that Finn, wisely, ignores.)

“Maybe,” she giggles. “Maybe not.”

“You sure?” Finn laughs.

“Nope,” Bellamy grumbles. The answer is too quick.

“What happened that night?” Murphy prods.

“Don’t know what night you mean-” Bellamy lies, but Clarke is already mid-story.

“That was the summer Bellamy, Octavia and I were moving product across the border.”

Bellamy groans and drops his head against the back of the couch. (There’s a reason Octavia’s not here.)

“We were in Hawaii,” Clarke purrs. “The beach was empty. It was the off season... and Bellamy and I were out on the sand alone.”

Her voice suddenly changes in tone, becoming soft pants instead of organized thought, as Finn’s hands ruck up her shirt, brushing over her breasts, finding her nipples and rolling them hard.

“And Bellamy... and me... we were so fucking excited we’d done our first big deal... and we were stupid... and young... and... in love...”

The sound, aching with need, has left Murphy hard and throbbing. Watching her wriggling in Finn and Bellamy’s arms, Murphy’s own hands drop to Clarke’s legs. His fingers slide over the thin fabric of her skirt, brushing it higher and higher, pushing aside the seam of her panties and finding her damp heat underneath. She gasps, losing the trail of the story and Murphy’s fingers move past her curls... stroking between her folds. Clarke, undone, is like a feast laid out across the three of them, and her hands trail from one to the other and then back again, leaving them (as always) supplicant before her.

“We didn’t know that Octavia’d been taken. We were so dumb and-”

“Clarke,” Bellamy warns, his words blurred by alcohol, “I don’t think—”

But before he can finish, she leans forward, kissing away his protests. Murphy moves closer, his erection tight against Bellamy’s hip, his hand sliding over the back of the couch to rest on Bellamy’s shoulder, brushing Finn’s arm and holding tight. Murphy wants to hear the story, but more than that, he wants to make Bellamy uncomfortable. (He’ll think about _that thought_ later.)

“So what happened that night?” he asks again and Bellamy glares at him. “With you and Bellamy, I mean,” Murphy adds. (Everyone knows what happened to Octavia.)

Finn apparently knows the story, because he picks it up. “The two of them went to the beach and Clarke-” Finn pauses to shift her upright, pulling her tank up and over her head, leaving her bare-breasted before the three of them,“-decided that in the sand was the perfect place to celebrate their big haul.”

Clarke giggles and Bellamy frowns, and Murphy finds himself entranced by the way Clarke’s hands move to Bellamy’s chest next. It’s as if she senses him lagging behind the rest of them, and her fingers move, like a spell, to draw him back in. She strips off his clothes piece by piece, turning, now and again, to caress Finn and Murphy, keeping their attention in the game she is playing.

“... and there they were,” Finn chuckles, “down on the beach, bare-assed in the moonlight.” He laughs louder. “ _You know Clarke_.”

“The sex was amazing,” she sighs, standing up, and sliding her skirt and panties down into a pool at her feet. “But in the morning,” she begins, then falls into a fit of giggling.

Bellamy groans in annoyance. He slumps lower, his eyes on Clarke and no one else.

“In the morning,” Finn finishes, “they discovered that the reason no one was out on the beach at night, was because it was full of sandflies.” (Nobody mentions the other half of the story: Octavia, taken away by the police.)

Finn stifles a laugh. “Bellamy had so many bites on his ass he had to get an injection of antihistamine at the hospital.”

Clarke cackles with laughter as she removes the last of Bellamy’s clothes. She turns to Murphy next, tugging off his shorts were rough jerks, her hands brushing over his cock more than once as she strips him bare. Behind them, Finn has stripped himself down too, and is now helping Bellamy tug off his socks. Finally – _impossibly_ – all four of them are there together, naked, sitting on the couch in the candlelit lit room, their skin warmed by the humid air and the nearness of one another.

This time it’s not a surprise to him, and he _knows_ it’s happened before, with just Bellamy and Finn. He wonders if, at some point, the subterfuge that always precedes this – Bellamy’s heavy drinking, and Finn’s insistence on being handsier than usual – will disappear in comfort and desire, and they’ll simply act. The thoughts are muddled and too close to what Murphy’s feeling as Clarke tugs him forward, pushing him down so that he slides down on the couch next to Bellamy. She wants them both there, side by side, one hand wrapping Bellamy’s cock, one on Murphy’s, her body nestled between the two of them. A heartbeat later she turns to Finn, urging him behind her. He grins and – as he always does – obliges.

Clarke glances to Murphy first, lips twisting in a smirk. He loves and hates her mouth and what it does to him. Any person who’d suggest that what she offers when she drops her head to his crotch, dragging her lips in an ‘o’ around the tip of his cock and beginning to piston up and down, is anything less than _her in control_ has never known Clarke Griffin. Murphy gasps as her mouth wraps tightly around him, his eyes rolling back in his head as the room suddenly contracts and the other players take their places around them.

Clarke’s hands are moving on Bellamy – he can feel that too – and Bellamy’s fingers are suddenly everywhere – Clarke’s breasts, Finn’s stomach and then on him. Finn has already found his way to Clarke. As Murphy watches through hooded eyes, he moves her legs apart, sliding forward, his hands tight on her hips, his gaze on Murphy and Bellamy. Clarke’s mouth tightens as he begins to pump into her, her mouth matching the rhythm of Finn’s thrusts.

Murphy knows that he should look away – that he should think of Clarke alone like he wants to, but from his position, it’s _Finn_ that he can really see, his body sweaty and thrusting as he moves against the heart-shape of Clarke’s ass. Clarke’s mouth moves harder and faster, matching Finn’s thrusts... _driven on by them_ , but it’s Finn Collins’ face Murphy keeps watching. The way his eyebrows pull together in pain as climax nears, his hands tightening until they are white knuckled where they hold her hips. Suddenly Finn moans aloud, thrusting twice in rapid succession.

Watching him, Murphy feels his balls tighten up in anticipation, his own release nearing. As if sensing it, Clarke suddenly switches positions, her mouth letting go of him with a wet pop as she twirls in place, letting go of Bellamy’s cock and climbing up onto the couch so that she can straddle Murphy. He gasps as he slides into her. She’s already tight, but she’s so wet he can feel the dampness dribbling between them – _Finn’s doing,_ his mind observes – but that’s as far as the thought goes. In seconds Murphy is thrusting, his body moving upward on the wave of sensation. Clarke’s body wrapped around him.

Somehow in the last moments, Finn has moved forward and he takes Clarke’s place before Bellamy, his mouth dropping to the other man’s groin. If Bellamy wants to protest, he doesn’t have time to because Clarke turns his face toward her, kissing him hard, one hand on the back of Bellamy’s neck, tugging him nearer, forcing him to be part of the tableau, the other on Murphy’s shoulder, holding herself steady as she rides him. Time stops having meaning as Murphy thrusts in time to her pants, his mind lost in the feel of Clarke, tighter than a fist around him, the fit impossibly right.

“Oh God, Clarke,” Murphy gasps as he feels her body tighten down like a coil about to release. Hearing him, she turns, leaving the others for a moment as his thrusts begin to lose pace. She moans loudly, the hollow sound of her voice in the living room matching with the fluttering Murphy feels as she breaks around him. Suddenly he’s following her down into the abyss and he gasps in ecstasy, climax leaving him floating in a wave of release. Next to Murphy, he feels Finn slump down onto the couch, his head tipping against his shoulder as they lay together, panting on the cushions.

Vaguely, he feels Clarke climb up off of him, moving so that she can lay on her back, her feet brushing against Murphy’s thighs as Bellamy turns, his face almost angry, and pushes into her. Then Clarke’s moans grows loud once more as Bellamy takes his turn, the movement a fluttering, like a butterfly wings, in the periphery of Murphy’s vision.

_Bellamy’s always last,_ he realizes.

Bellamy’s cries mingle with Clarke’s and then fade, the sound of their coupling disappearing until there is only the surf remaining. Moments before sleep pulls him under, Murphy feels Clarke moving again. This time she comes back tugging a comforter from the largest bedroom – _hers, of course_ – and she drapes it over the three men. And then she wanders, barefoot, through the room, blowing out the candles one by one, until one last flame remains.

“Love you,” she whispers, and blows it out. The light disappearing with a wet hiss, back into darkness.

And Murphy knows, she means them all.

 

 


End file.
